


Slipping Twisted from Here

by angelgazing



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-18
Updated: 2010-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-07 09:04:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/63562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelgazing/pseuds/angelgazing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five ways Harry and Draco didn't end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slipping Twisted from Here

**i. **

Dusk falls heavy when they're in the air. It weighs down their brooms and makes them slow as much as exhaustion does.

The dying day bleeds light and darkens their game. Smudges everything a heavy blue-grey and makes it just that little bit too hard to see.

Potter is backlit against the sun going down. Black against pink and orange and it's really fucking ridiculous the way the crowd thinks that this will be the defining moment. They chant Potter's name and hold their breath and whisper to themselves, like a prayer for the dying, that this will be the way it ends.

The last game of Quidditch Potter plays at Hogwarts would have to be against Slytherin for the cup, wouldn't it? Couldn't have dared be anything else. It's always got to come down to this for the big finish.

One last game and winner takes all. This'll be how the war ends.

Draco blinks once, slowly, to keep from looking at Potter any longer. The sunset is blinding him and Potter's a shadow against it.

The crowd is a steady pounding in his ears; there's a pressure like a clamp on the back of his neck, but he can't let the muscles relax. He's gripping his broom so tight his knuckles are white against the wood.

When Draco opens his eyes, it's there in front of him and Potter is scanning the sky above.

So he reaches out, and grabs it.

The wings flutter against his palm, and it tickles and the crowd stops, slips into silence like they'd been hexed into it. This is how it'll end, they think, Harry Potter will lose.

Later, when they're all on the ground again with the grass soft under their boots, Potter tilts his head when he looks at Draco, like he's considering a problem he never knew was there.

"Malfoy," Potter says, glancing over his shoulder at the rest of the Gryffindor team on their way to the showers and then back to Draco. "Malfoy," he repeats, finally, instead of trying to think of something better, and holds out his hand.

Draco turns his back.

They've got to play their parts after all.

 

 

**ii.**

Granger's got bags under her eyes—a deep purple-blue like the colour of Potter's skin when Draco gets too rough.

The charms for that are easy, and Draco would snicker behind his hand, but he wears the blue-purple-black red rimmed print of Potter's hand around his wrist with a glorious sort of satisfaction. He smirks as he pushes away his fringe, let's his sleeve slide up just so when Potter's a step behind, and he bites his lip as Potter's eyes go dark.

_Look_, Draco can say without saying a word, _look at what I can reduce you to._

And if Potter's eyes go dark because he's remembering pulling Draco down instead of shoving him away, then that's really all the better, isn't it?

_Look_, Draco says, smirking. _Look how much you want me_.

The weasel and the mudblood bookend Potter, same as always, across the hall outside the potions classroom. He's got one on each side of him, Weasley to the right, Granger to the left. Like his protectors and guards, only things keeping him up right while he's got the world on his bloody shoulders and at his fucking feet.

But Granger's got bags under her eyes, her fingertips are stained from running across pages. She's got ink imbedded down to the bone, he'd bet, and Weasley's got suspicion ground into his breakfast every morning. They're showing their wear.

Potter shifts, uncomfortable, and looks toward the ceiling, his shoes, the people to either side of him and the long line of Slytherins, all in a row. Anything to not look at Draco.

Like he can't bloody stand the sight of it—of him and the proof he wears—by the light of day in a hallway when it's crowded.

They stand forever right on the edge of finding it all out. Right on the bloody edge of opening their eyes and seeing what they don't want to.

And it would be easy, so _easy_, and he does because it is.

No, not _does_, not when Potter's got his lip chewed an angry red like the sun set on fire and eyes bright enough to light the fucking flames because he _wants_ and Draco wants, and he'll break him down a little bit at a time. He likes it more that way.

Granger wears more questions in her eyes than a girl should ever have.

Potter fidgets.

Draco turns his wrist just right to make sure everyone can see it, bruises stark against the black of his robes. He cocks his head to the side, and Potter is burning with it, flushed red and trying so hard not to look at Draco and failing more than he ever did at Potions, even.

Weasley leans against the wall—arms carefully arranged to just brush his knuckles against Potter when he breathes—watching Potter's profile from the corner of his eye and beginning to get an idea of things.

"How's your father?" Weasley sneers as though he has a _right_ to it. "Still waiting for his kiss?"

"Still better off than yours, I'd assume," Draco replies. Waves his hand lazily in dismissal, just waiting for Potter to shift _that_ way that means class is going to be very interesting. He fights down the grin when it happens, bites down hard on it when he catches the way Weasley sees it too.

Weasley steps away from the wall, steps toward Draco with his ears tipped red and he says, "Only a Death Eater could ever think so."

"Ron," Potter says, this side of surprised and only after Weasley steps between him and Draco. Even Granger lets out her own gasp.

Amazing, Draco thinks, that she can't read what's so clear in front of her.

"Only the truly classless would imply such a thing, Weasley."

"Everyone knows it, Malfoy. No one here doubts for a second that you're just as useless as your father. Sitting the war away in Azkaban because it's safer there, yeah? When it's over and the dementors are back there that anyone on the Malfoy family tree'll be first in line for their attention?"

"Show me your proof then, Weasel," he smirks. "Go on, everyone is waiting."

Draco doesn't fight when Weasley grabs his arm and shoves up his sleeve. He's too busy looking around him to watch Potter staring in wide-eyed horror. The way that Granger edges around to cast a charm is unsurprising, and Draco doesn't give them the satisfaction of squirming.

"Ron," she says softly, deflated. "Ron, let him go."

"Yes, Weasley, get your dirt drenched hands off of me. Who knows where they've been? Cleaning the kneazle cages to earn your way through Hogwarts? For that little bit of gold you dream of being in your empty pocket?"

"Ron," Potter says, eyes sharp on Draco's arm like every one else's. "Stop. He's not… He isn't a Death Eater."

But Potter knew that already. He likes to be sure that the only marks Draco wears are his own.

 

 

**iii.**

The sky is pink at dusk, bleeding gold and orange.

Potter moves, away and closer again with a whispered rasping of robes that scream across the empty hallway. His glasses reflect the sun dying outside the window, burnt yellow, and his fingers bite down into Draco's arm.

But then he's gone again, of course, bottom lip ripe and too red. Bruised from another mouth that wasn't Draco's.

"Malfoy," he says, tightening his mouth into a thin line as though that'll keep him from noticing the way that his lips move more than his voice sounds. He tries to sneer and it's almost comical.

There is an echo of footsteps from the next corridor, the pitter-patter of tiny first year feet still lost inside the castle and afraid of what they'll find. They turn left instead of right, and Potter unfreezes, makes like he can breathe again as soon as they fade away.

The sharp breath he takes is louder in Draco's ears than should be possible at all.

"Potter," Draco says, sneers good and proper.

"You can't," Harry answers, steps closer and then away. He's panting against what he wants, same as always, his fingers wrapped tight around his wand like all he needs is an excuse. It doesn't matter that he stopped Draco this time. Just matters that he plays his part so well.

There's no one here to see.

"Come off it," Draco snaps. "You did."

The doors open as the rest of Hogwarts comes back inside. Laughter was hanging just outside the window, but it's gone now, crushed beneath the march of muddy feet and chilled limbs.

Potter takes another step back, and then Weasley is by his side all of a sudden. Granger is only a step behind, because where you've got one you've got them all. Gryffindors are like cockroaches in that way.

"You aren't," Harry says, ducking his head down and to the side. Granger wraps her fingers around his elbow and dusk fades too quickly into night. Touches along the wall light, and the fire burns in Potter's eyes. Turns his skin golden and casts shadows all around. "You aren't worth it," he says, finally.

Draco doesn't watch them walk away as he clenches fists inside the pockets of his robes.

 

 

**iv.**

"Potter," Draco hisses, and shoves him _hard_. Shoves him against the wall and holds him there with bone-tired fingers.

His head hits against the grey stone with a dull, heavy thud that doesn't dare to echo. He doesn't raise a hand or put up a fight. It's less fun this way. "I didn't--"

The torches send his face to shadow, reflect off his glasses and make it impossible to see impossibly green eyes behind. The light isn't soft because nothing here is, the stone scraps Draco's knuckles as his fingers wrap around the back of Potter's neck.

Wind whistles an absent tune vaguely reminiscent of _Weasley Is Our King_ as it cuts its way into the castle and winds its way around them, between the little space that lies between them. Potter shivers as the breeze wraps around his knees.

Somehow it's warm here, like dawn in spring crawling through the drapes and the heavy curtains of his bed with bright sun yellow on the mornings when Potter's there beside him yawning. The feeling that settles—like a thousand pebbles rolling—in his stomach on those mornings is with him now. Clamped tight around important things.

The truth of things could choke him sometimes. Mostly he could choke Potter with it, but then that just seems too easy. Mostly.

Sodding _Weasley_, this is all his bloody fault.

"Does he _know_," Draco asks, curls his lip in distaste of the question. It tastes foul on his tongue.

Potter shakes his head, does it as best he can with the vice of Draco's fingers along the back of his neck. He opens his mouth, darts pink tongue out to wet lips red as sin, and makes to say something then thinks better of it. He just tilts his head back and blinks at the ceiling.

Such a bloody pansy, can't even look him in the eye.

Draco sneers, even if he doesn't want to, and takes that one step closer. If there is one place where he's got the advantage over Potter it's here, sliding hand from shoulder and down slower than slow.

"Didn't tell him a blasted thing, did you?" Draco says, whispers almost absently against the reddened skin of Potter's neck where his fingers still clench hard just below his ear. "Didn't so much as hiss it while he was fucking you, I bet. Not a hint of, 'oh, by the way, I'm Draco Malfoy's good little whore.' Did you kiss him nice and sweet when asked about the marks you got by my hands, Potter?"

Whining high and dry in the back of his throat Potter arches his back, catches his hair against the stone as his shoulders press back and he tries to get closer when Draco's hand settles on his belt. "D-Didn't," he stutters.

"Oh?" Draco asks, smirks and nips at Potter's jaw. "Didn't ask, did he? Do you think he knows, Potter? Think that's why he hasn't got the questions burning off his tongue? Or is he stupid enough not to see that the bruises you wear are shaped just like my fingers?"

Draco hooks his thumb under the waistband of Potter's trousers and pulls, gives him just that bit of pressure he wants before he's pulling back and pushing away.

"Does he know how to touch you, Potter?" The sound of his belt being unbuckled is indecently loud in the empty corridor. Draco shivers at the sound of metal clicking, tapping, leather sliding and releasing as it echoes off the cold stone that surrounds them. His fingernails graze the skin on Potter's hip too hard, just the way he likes it.

"Does he know the sound you make when I've got my fingers wrapped round your cock?" Draco asks, matching action to his words.

Potter bites his lip hard and still can't muffle the whimpering moaning whine he makes. He shakes hard, his fingernails gripping at Draco's forearm desperately, digging in even through his robes and it's going to leave a mark but neither of them mind.

"Can't get him to do it right at all, can you? So you're left coming back to me time and time again, always with the same old story. _I hate you, Malfoy_," he mimics cruelly, nicer than the rhythm he sets with his hand but not by much. His trousers are too bloody tight and this stopped being fun a long time ago. "You don't know a blasted thing about hate, you pathetic half-blood."

Draco lets go all at once and steps back. Potter releases him in surprise, mouth opening with a strangled noise of protest.

It's not like he's ever seen Potter spread and bare beneath the stars. Ink black hair against burnt black grass and his knees and elbows cold in the dirt of it all. His mouth open wide and panting as the moon paints him more blue-silver than the sky is on perfect days.

It's not like he wants to, either. Mostly Draco likes him set against stone when the firelight of the torches hides his face. Mostly he savours the sound of their breathing as it echoes. Mostly he doesn't even care for the grey light of dawn at all.

"I'll show you hate," Draco sneers, and walks away first for once.

 

 

**v.**

They miss most of the leaving feast because Potter is fucking him in the Gryffindor dorm room while it's empty.

It's hard and fast, fingers slipping too rough over already bruised skin that's slick with sweat. Potter pants hot and damp at the top of his spine, he hisses something and Draco feels it cut across his skin like something sharper than a knife but he doesn't listen.

He just crushes the sheets in his fists and muffles the sounds he makes into the crushed white pillow on Potter's bed.

The bed smells like old sex. Like the salt of sweat and come and dirt. Dirty things, at least, like Potter's got mud from a bad landing under the fingernails that drag across Draco's ribs.

He stops there, spreads his fingers out and breathes, bleeds something like emotion onto the back of Draco's neck. Potter clenches his hands when Draco breathes in sharply. His fingertips tremble like the too fast beating of their hearts.

"You can't," Draco says, suddenly, when he can't help but hear it. He's panting even harder now, because panic is seeping into this in ways it should've before but _didn't_ because what it should've done means nothing next to what Draco wants done and what he doesn't.

He doesn't want this.

"You stupid sod," Draco hisses, not like Potter can but how a Malfoy does it. Slipping over sibilants the way Potter's fingers slip over Draco's cock just right to make him hiss _in_ a breath too sharp instead of out one more curse of Potter's name. It's nothing like the sounds that Potter can make with his tongue to have snakes wrapped around the throat of those who make too many mistakes, but it's as close as any Malfoy has come to it.

"You stupid fucking cunt, Potter, don't you dare."

Draco's got the pillowcase wet with sweat and spit, he buries his face there to stifle his cry when Potter twists his fist and thrusts his hips just right. He's got his fingers tangled in the sheet so hard it's going to rip and tear apart.

They'd have something in common then, at least. All of them.

Potter doesn't listen. Doesn't consider that he knows he's wrong and Draco isn't. He just moves his other hand from Draco's ribs, for fucking _finally_. Except he only moves it to wrap it around, to pull Draco up and _hold him_ right against his chest.

He wants to say it again. _You can't, you bloody wanker._ The words burn at the end of his tongue.

If his head falls back on Potter's shoulder, if his mouth opens for Potter's without resistance, then it's only because they leave tomorrow.

It's not like Draco doesn't still imagine that he'll walk away from Potter begging him, it's the only other thing always in his fantasies. He'll say, _I'm going home_. And Potter will say, _can't you see I already am?_

Draco imagines a lot of things, like the way Potter's mouth tastes rusty with blood from a split lip and that Draco was the one to give it to him.

But right up against his jaw Potter says, "Draco, Draco, we did. We'll make it alright." And twists his hand again just as his fingers bite down on Draco's side to make him come hard as ever.

They won't, but they'll pretend for just a while longer and it'll be worth not sitting at the table when Slytherin finally beats Gryffindor again.


End file.
